The Black Imaginings of Artemis Entreri
by Surreptitious Chi X
Summary: Careful, and watch where you step, for you are now visiting a place governed by different rules... This is a place bound not by the rules of the world, but the secretive caste of an assassin's mind, and willing, most would never wish to know what that is.
1. Section I: Poetry

**Section I: Artemis' Poetry**

A collection of rancid poetry, rotting in his mind

It peels away, day by day, until it leaves nothing left

He begins anew, building song, collecting surreal story

The things that haunt him most are the things he will not worry.

**Shadows Run Deep**

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Shadows go deeper in the mind than anywhere else in earth and heaven

They hide the most vile of expressions

They cloak the most hideous of deeds

When the silent stain then spreads, it corrupts the mind

Instead of leaving dead things where they lie

They follow me behind.

**A Promise**

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Lies split the air, smelling ranker than a room full of homeless people huddled in an abandoned inn

Some say love, others say treasure

A promise red as a whore's henna nails

Such a thing no one ever intended to keep

Tucked away like a colored stone, almost currency in the hands of a forgotten child

To a mouth that has never known food

A promise might be worth eating.

Is it wholesome?

Is it filling?

**Counting Days**

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One carcass of a dog, split from chest to groin and robbed of its organs for a poor man's stew.

Two men fighting with their dull iron swords, weathered long past usefulness, their tempers good as new.

Three women found, buried in the rubble of a building that collapsed, stones too weak, finally, to hold themselves together.

Counting days, counting time,

Sticks and stones, marks in dirt,

Counting, keeping, counting, keeping, watching suns that fall and rise

One more reason to despise the endless work of living

Clouds that travel across the skies

Counting days and counting time.

Four fruits stolen from a stand, four fruits exchanged for one right hand, saving screams for next time, saving tears for gold.

Five thieves watching, thinking, next time they will not be so bold.

Six merchants all conferring, too busy to watch their wares

Seven bandits robbing homes.

Eight guards forcing beggars aside, breaking bones and tearing skin

Nine wives screaming after a convict, all voices as one,

_Where are you taking him?_

Counting voices

Counting time

Counting ways

Counting days,

Counting time to pass the time, counting, counting, counting, counting…

Ten months since leaving home

Eleven days since seeing food

Twelve times fingers almost got caught

Thirteen ways to lose it all.


	2. Section II: Impressions

Section II: Impressions

Moments caught in time, their breaths held, like scarabs in amber.

The Happiest Time

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When people say that childhood is the happiest experience of their lives, he doesn't know what they mean. He thinks back to his own childhood; a maelstrom of red and black so thick he can hardly see, memories so strong, but like graffiti, he tried to scrub from the walls of his mind, to get rid of the ugly scrawls. Not the sometimes beautiful murals of rich pashas, but the dark, confusing messages left by rival gangs and bullies fighting for the poor streets of Calimport. He stares at these people, hard, trying to see into their minds, their souls, and he always finds a blankness. He began to suspect them all of being in on a conspiracy; spread the lie of childhood so no one finds out how much shame everyone's fathers, everyone's uncles, everyone's mentors put you through. No matter how many beatings there were, how many drunken rantings that ended with being thrown to the floor and molested, if anyone asks, just smile and say, "Childhood was the happiest time of my life."

Seeing Death

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When he sees something or someone, he always imagines what they look like dead. He doesn't consciously do it, because he doesn't care. Every so often, when he turns around, he is faced with one of these living-death visions, a sudden reality like a mirage, come and gone like a passing insect. It shakes him, down to layers of consciousness he never uses, rattling his armor like cheap plates. An alley cat startled him, once, when he was walking down the narrow, cluttered alleyways of Calimport, and for a moment, he saw it twisted and broken, black fur matted with blood, eyes open and decaying like withering green grapes. It ran away, and he was relieved to be freed from his rebellious imagination. He saw Jarlaxle, once. Pale and gray in death. Not like himself at all. Not smiling. Not drinking, or swaggering, or flirting. Just…dead. A body, like any other. It frightened him, and because it frightened him, he averted his eyes and kept it to himself, listening once more to Jarlaxle proclaiming the various heroic deeds he would do, if people only appointed him a hero.


	3. Short Story: Beds

**Short Stories**

Illuminating scenes of varying lengths.

**Beds**

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There was one thing Artemis Entreri always saw when he looked at a bed. This bed was no different; it had a hard mattress of compressed cotton and hay, it had a white bed sheet topped with a brown blanket, it had two clean, wafer-thin pillows, and smelled of moth balls, but it was exactly the same. He saw a tall, arrogant Calishite with rippling muscles down his back pinning a boy to the bed. The assassin shuddered, turned away, and tried to block out the feeling of sweat trickling down his body. It was so easy to avoid close sexual encounters, even if Jarlaxle kept shoving attractive women in his face. All he had to do was look at a bed, and he felt his lunch rising to the top of his throat. He knew that Jarlaxle would never win this particular argument with him.

He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. The brass was warm.

"What?" Jarlaxle asked from behind him. "Where are you going?" The drow mercenary sat up, gingerly untangling himself from his blonde, buxom visitor. "I thought you promised to try this time. She's not here for me – despite appearances." The dark elf primly took his hat back, taking it out of the woman's hands. She giggled at him. "I think you owe Cassie an explanation. I told her on good authority that you would be nice."

"Beds," Artemis said vaguely. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him with a click.


	4. Section II: Sparring

**Section II: Impressions**

**Sparring**

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Artemis decides that he's going to win this sparring match. A small grin slips onto his face right before he delivers the final strike, other hand shoving Jarlaxle's arm out wide.

But he never gets to. Fear hits the assassin in the stomach, buckling him more effectively than a sudden onset of food poisoning. Jarlaxle easily throws him off and then hits him in the stomach with a dagger that bounces harmlessly off thanks to the stoneskin enchantment.

Artemis doesn't even notice. His vision is going fuzzy, and he can't see where he's going. He feels as though he's slipping. _Wait_ – he wants to yell, call out for Jarlaxle, of all people, to call the drow mercenary to stop – but he can't.

Lying on the floor, body sore and heavy, unresponsive. A gag stretched tight across his mouth, held down by two strong hands. He shakes his head, slowly, from side to side, and feels a hot, burning lump moving up from his stomach, up his throat. He hears words, and he thinks he's remembering them. He mouths them wordlessly: As…aspirate…Aspirated, intohisgag. It sounds like nonsense, the last part. He says it again, but before he can finish moving his lips to it, he's choking. He's trying to get away, but he can barely move. Tears of pain are gathering at the corners of his eyes, his vision is starting to burn out.

He feels the rough snap of the gag being removed, and he turns over quicker than he thought possible, throwing up. The hot, thick acid gushes out, and keeps on coming. He's throwing up…throwing up…throwing up. "You said it wouldn't hurt!" It's his own voice, shouted. It's too loud. He cringes away from it, trying to scramble away, but he can't escape. He hears his own voice speaking again. "You said it wouldn't hurt!"

Then his vision clears and he finds himself in a corner, curled up into a shaking ball, one hundred forty pounds of tanned and weathered muscle, clutching a drow sword to his chest. Artemis stares across the room at Jarlaxle, who stands there looking satisfied that he won the fight.

_I'm going to kill him_, Artemis thought. _I'm going to kill him for using Rai-guy on me when he's supposed to be sparring with me. It's supposed to be one-on-one._ Then, realizing that Jarlaxle never deceives him when it comes to sparring together, the assassin shakily stands up, waiting for Jarlaxle to explain what just happened to him. He narrows his eyes. _It was Crenshinibon, wasn't it._

But that didn't explain Artemis' vision.


End file.
